


The Things You've Come To Know

by Slow_Moving_Outlaw



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:12:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Moving_Outlaw/pseuds/Slow_Moving_Outlaw
Summary: Delia is zen-like, patient, kind and loving. Patsy is an enigma wrapped in a riddle. They proved to be the answers to each other's questions, as ordained by fate or whatever mysterious force brings two people together.(Thanks to lee_dee for the awesome summary).





	1. To Reach

**Author's Note:**

> As a general rule I don't post anything, ever. But in light of recent news about the new series of CTM, there's a part of myself, pestering me about posting my ramblings. And I'm so ashamed, I've been trying to convince myself for a long time to just do it.
> 
> A warning: my native language is not English. I try to be very careful with grammar, but if there are mistakes, I'd be grateful if they are pointed out to me. There's a theory that states that the language you speak shapes the way you think and see the world; this is what really worries me, my inability to truly comprehend the characters. You wonderful people on this site, do it much better than I ever could. So I apologize in advance.

 

Knowledge is such a vast and strange thing. It can encompass the academic, the useful, the trivial. Patsy could see her whole life contain in the things she knew.

Knowledge is not only vast, but malleable. It has this ability to adjust itself to each moment of her existence, to delineate every period of her life. In boarding school, knowledge was all about classifications, doctrines, and most of all, about propriety: it enclosed the expected behavior of a _lady_ for each occasion, the proper form of speech. How stupid it all seemed to her back then, how outdated, as if the war hadn’t tarnished the meaning of everything.

In a more private connotation, knowledge provide her with the appropriate mask for each moment. And ever since the Camp, it was the mask the one that walked among others, and the one that talked inconsequential words, enough to answer when questioned, and enough to keep everyone from sensing the quiet desperation, the emptiness, the loss of those most dear to her. No less important—she emphatically adds—knowledge can offer her, through the appropriate experimentation, the right kind of bleach, strong enough to leave her both dizzy and oddly satisfied.

Training School, brought yet another layer of knowledge, brought a new meaning. Now, it was all about systems, connections, procedures, each one with a clear, precise name and clear, precise instructions. Because nursing was all about accuracy, about what she can do, not what she can say. Not pale, useless words. They often failed her, deceived her, and made her think in what could have been, in memories buried long ago. She thrived in these clean, new knowledge; it kept away thoughts of things way beyond her reach.

Nursing allowed her the only future she’d thought possible for herself. She had always envisioned a life of endless shifts, immaculate uniforms, cigarette breaks, an infinite number of faceless patients and, the occasional outing as to keep the gossip at bay. Let the others deal with her masks, let the others believe her to be too aloof, too posh for her own good. In this picture of her life, she would visit her father, maybe every year, though their encounters remained the polite meeting of two strangers. She could deal with this life, with the distance and the silence. Not with much more.

She figured she have yet to know much more, none of it in the way she had expected. Because precision, masks and the cool surface of a life already planned, never prepared her for the turmoil that was Delia Busby. It was in the spring of 1956 when she started thinking of things beyond her reach.

Patsy didn’t quite remember when she first saw her, probably in-between classes and ward shifts. Usually, she didn’t notice anything. She didn’t like to dwell on things without any practical use. Yet, gradually, she started to perceive details otherwise lost in the day to day. The first, was the slightly disheveled hair under the nurse’s cap. The second, the eyes of bottomless depths, a hue of blue she only knew existed there. Then, the voice, the welsh accent so sweet, so gentle. All of the sudden, Delia was all that Patsy can see.

Even when she hadn’t held a proper conversation with the welsh woman, she let her gaze lingered, always chasing the shadow of her, always eavesdropping on her, in spite of her rooted education screaming how rude it was.

This made her uneasy, and intrigued her deeply. Not only she was distracted, but she also couldn't stop her inadequacy and clumsiness around Delia. That woman and her brief looks, and her soft smiles, and her gentle salute. Patsy had filled herself with such silence, her words usually said all the wrong things. So whenever she attempted to salute back, her greeting was full of awkwardness and hesitations.

Patsy was completely fazed. She was not one to be nervous around others, she didn’t really think about them in the way people seemed to do it. She couldn’t foresee what people look for in each other. Inside her, there was really nothing worth looking for. At times, she felt like a delay-action bomb, waiting and waiting. There was no room for anything but the waiting. Therefore, love was not something she harbor, it was a language she couldn’t comprehend. One of the many things she was convinced she would never knew.

What she did know, had known for a long time, was of her lack of interest towards men. She had heard the women around her talked and talked about them, about the possibilities they offer, yet they hold no appeal. Somehow, the natural transition of boyfriend to husband to children felt irrelevant. She reckoned the Camp left her incapable of any true feeling. Patsy was in no way prepared for the implications of a different answer, she wouldn’t accept or even suggest any other explanation. She could be an efficient nurse, a truly good nurse but that’s about it.

And she tried so hard for her mind not to wander, not to think of things out of her reach, re: Delia Busby. But in the quiet darkness of her room in the nurses’ home, thoughts of Delia cut right through her exhaustion. Patsy just laid there, smoking more cigarettes than she cared to admit, learning how to think about the welsh woman, remembering half-lines of poems long forgotten, asserting that maybe heaven is, the way Delia Busby is. Patsy even found a word for this condition. Directly from the dictionary: to _yearn_ , i.e. to long persistently. She usually had to look up definitions, their clearness soothe her, lift the weight of chaos, of the unknown.

Of course, she'd berate herself the next morning for such stupid yearning. For such stupid thoughts. In time, they’d bring only pain to an already aching heart.

The salutes and acknowledgments turned into fleeting conversations and mischievous observations. The space between encounters grew. They went out with the other nurses. Then, they went out alone to watch movies, enjoy meals and spend time in late night conversations aided by a bit of alcohol.

Eventually, words would start to come more easily. At first, Patsy just listened to the welsh woman, fascinated for her tales of childhood and time well spent. She avoided the direct inquiries about her own life and just gave monosyllabic answers. Delia caught on and just kept talking. Patsy was certainly enthralled by Delia, but silence was habit on its own. Even if her masks were not on display, were not needed, the caution was still there. She did not want to say too much, risk too much.

Delia would tell her years later, that it was like trying to approach a wounded animal. Ever so patient, ever so slowly. And exactly like that, very slowly, Patsy begun talking about her life back east, about boarding school, purposefully skipping certain years. The words tasted different, she had refused for so long to form stories out of memories. She feared the sharpness of those memories, feared what lay beneath them. Patsy almost preferred a life disjointed and frozen, she would have gladly lived that life, but that was before Delia.

At that point, Patsy was already in deep. She continued her ritual of quiet thoughts in the darkness. The same yearning, but more violent, less innocent. She thought of suffocating closeness and illicit touches. She wished she could learn tenderness, all of her roughness forgotten: from her bleach-stained hands to her scarred body, everything dissolved in Delia’s arms.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to push away the impossibilities, not only the immediate one—the unnatural part, all its ramifications—but also the smaller ones: Delia deserved much more that hushed words. Much more than what Patsy could offer her, silence and a box full of broken memories.

So Patsy did the only thing she knew, putting distance. She would just work. No more yearning. No more outings and gentle exchanges, she would work and work and work. She'd cling to her sanity, somehow.

She almost succeeded. Almost. She had forgotten Delia’s persistence. She had looked for her, waited for her, asked her little, unassuming questions about her well-being. And Patsy felt warm and bewildered and cared for.

Her resolve crumbled, and once again she found herself circling the quiet, violent thoughts of Delia. Her tallest walls could not reach them, shut them down. So, she let them flow and carried them through long days, while ignoring lecherous patients and arrogant doctors, she carried them like an echo through her daily chores.


	2. To Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sure you were gonna chase me out of this site like an angry mob. That's why I posted this and ran as far as I could. I can't describe in lines how much it moves me to receive such kindness. I hope the rest won't disappoint.
> 
> A Rumanian writer once said writing in another language is like writing a love letter with a dictionary, and I feel like that. I apologize if the text doesn't flow with the easiness it should. 
> 
> A especial thanks to ANormalGeek for the corrections (once again, pointing out my mistakes helps me a lot).

 

It was in the winter of 1957 when she started learning closeness, in more ways than one.

 

Closeness begun with contact. Patsy understood the kind of utilitarian touch used for patients or displeasing dance partners. She always understood better aspects not directly connected with her own life. She wasn’t aware of the existence of Delia’s own brand of touch, the kind that’s barely there. Delia sure had mastered the art of being unobtrusive and yet, always there.

 

Patsy was not particularly fond of the memory of the first time Delia had touched her. It was after a grueling shift attending the casualties of a big accident. Patsy was beyond exhausted, trying to gather the strength to drink her tea; she didn’t notice when Delia sat next to her and gently grabbed her hand. She flinched so hard, she almost fell. Of course, Patsy tried to apologize, telling Delia she was just startle and tired. By the third time she flinched under Delia’s touch, she no longer had any excuses and could see the hurt in the other woman’s eyes, in the same way Patsy could always see the pain in her eyes. She tried to apologize profusely and assured Delia it had nothing to do with her, she was just distracted; to prove her point, she tentatively grabbed Delia’s hand and squeezed it. The welsh woman smiled, although not too convinced.

 

Truth was, those touches scared Patsy deeply. They were so warm, full with something she could not quite place, a tingling, so unlike the neatness of her previous life. Those damn touches kept her awake; every time she closed her eyes, she could feel them expanding all over her, like an island of light, enveloping everything.

 

If closeness for her begun with contact, it had to be followed with complicity, the instance of mutual communion, of shared worlds. It happened during one of their nightcaps, when the nurses’ home possessed a quietness deeper than usual. The rest of the nurses probably out on dates. Delia was in the middle of telling some childhood story that involved trees and grass. Suddenly, she asked Patsy, in the sweetest tone “How about you, Pats?”

 

Patsy was still lost in the green of Delia’s words and didn’t quite get what the question was about, yet, she did understand it in a broader sense, almost like an invitation. Then, Patsy looked at the welsh woman, feeling a courage foreign to her, and asked Delia, “Do you really want to know?” She nodded, not fully grasping the implications behind such question.

 

Not one to back out, Patsy proceeded to gave voice to all the things she had not allowed herself to recall. They came out with such brutality, such violence, that she started shaking and crying. Delia didn't utter a word, she just held her tight, with that concealed strength of hers, throughout her crying. Patsy found herself clinging to Delia with the urgency of those who may disintegrate if they let go.

 

Crying was another thing she knew because of Delia. Before she met her, Patsy didn’t cry and went through her days with a dull emptiness. The times when she woke up frightened, there were no tears, just a cold terror, a thousand ice nails beating in her chest. She had probably cried before the Camp, though memories of that time were hazy, like surrounded by frosted glass. Like she hadn’t lived them at all.

 

Patsy often felt perversely amused by the functioning of her memory: what she ought to remember seemed a simulation, memories pretending to have something they didn’t have; and what she ought to forget was ubiquitous. The Camp was marked all over her body, the scars sewed her memories together. The one on her upper thigh, held an infamous prominence in her life. It was deep, and throbbed when the temperature dropped. She believed the pain was not from the remnants of the wound itself, but from the memory attached to it. What a cruel joke to have that night ingrained in her skin, the same night when the pouring rain had washed out the markers of the makeshift graves and Patsy went out looking for them, in the midst of the rain and the mud. She fell a few times and cut herself in several places, none as deep as the one on her leg. She couldn't find the graves, and just stood there in the field, without anything solid to hold on to, her life bound to tumble in the abstract. She remembered those times and the ensuing void with a clearness she should reserve for wiser things.

 

After Delia held her, the change was tangible. Her arms branded Patsy in a way that others’ embrace would never be enough. Closeness became then something Patsy desired, even when she may not have fully understood it. She craved and craved the other woman’s touch, no longer shying away. She even initiated little touches in private, a rub in the hand, a graze in the shoulder, anything that would carry her through the days. She knew it was dangerous, and some part inside her was urging repeatedly to stop. She didn’t want to. She felt like a stream flowing in synchrony with all existence.

 

Nevertheless, Patsy had always been a woman of patterns, and the elation—as any other feeling she was not accustomed to—became suspicious, and was slowly replaced by an unbearable dread, a tedious waiting of the imminent end. She obsessively begun estimating how long it will take for Delia to leave with some nameless man. After all, it is the habit of the world that women and men must entangle in some sort of defined path.

 

The waiting was consuming her. Patsy grew quieter and stared intently at Delia for long periods. If Delia’s departing was unavoidable, she needed to fill herself with the welsh woman, ration every look, every touch to compensate for her absence. It made Delia nervous, though she didn’t push for an explanation, let Patsy worked it out.

 

One afternoon, once Patsy was weary of uncertainty, asked Delia what she wanted for the future—not an unusual question, nothing too obvious. Delia smiled and told Patsy her plans consisted on being a good nurse and a good friend, the rest will sort itself out. An ambiguous answer to an ambiguous question that did little to ease Patsy’s worries. She felt tempted to over-analyze every word and tried to suppress the smirk every time she focused on the palpable absence of traditional expectations.

 

Despite all the things Patsy was learning, she never realized that Delia, too, was learning, much faster. She learned how to read her expressions and her silences, she learned her habits. Delia knew so much about Patsy that she was almost sure of the reason behind the lingering gazes, the cycles of anxiety and the concealed questions. That’s why, Delia had been waiting for her to do or say anything for months, teased her with not-so-casual touches and suggestive observations. Patsy merely stayed there staring at the welsh woman, like gathering the courage to force a change, only for the mask and the silence to surface. The truth manifested itself: Patsy would never say or do anything, she’d rather tear herself apart quietly.

 

Then, Delia being Delia did what she always did: take action. At the end of the shift, she dragged the taller woman to her room and offered her a drink. Patsy nodded and sat in the bed, quietly sipping her drink. This time, Delia stared at Patsy intently. Patsy looked at her and gave her a questioning look. Delia exasperated said, mostly to herself, “enough is enough”, crossed the room and kissed her. Brief, but firm. No warning, no second thoughts. A kiss so entirely Delia.

 

Patsy was astounded, frozen. The welsh woman smiled and kissed her again, longer, properly. Only then, Patsy kissed her back the best way she could, trying to control the pounding of her head, trying not the break the moment with the overwhelming force ripping through her.

 

Delia would tell her much later that those first kisses were tentative, measured. That she could feel the tremor all over the taller woman. However, the successive kisses, in the alone time they could muster, were of such intensity she thought it would crush her. Delia would also tell her, that’s exactly how it feels to be loved by her, a unique sort of intensity that might tear her apart and make her reborn. An intensity only briefly silenced—never really lessened—out there in the world, where Patsy must balance herself, deal with the weight of her masks, her job and her fears. Precisely because that intensity, Delia knew Patsy loved her long before she had uttered a word. It was a force Patsy couldn’t hide, not even with her perfected facades.

 


	3. To Transform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. In my defense, I've been sick and probably sleeping too much. Only when I'm sleep-deprived I can convince my brain to post, otherwise I'm too ashamed to do it. All of you have been so kind to me, it's overwhelming, and for that I'm eternally grateful.
> 
> Again, I apologize beforehand for the mistakes.

 

Sometimes Patsy wished she could still desire order, the kind only disturbed by the dust of passing days. She only wished for order when this new dynamic provided her with great quantities of joy or pain, when she needed to cling to a shallow sense of safety.

 

She used to cherish stillness, used to know what every moment was for, each assigned to a task, each distributed according to necessity and efficiency. It was her clumsy attempt to use up the time, for that was her purpose, consume the years she had left, years that should have ended more than a decade ago. She couldn’t put an abrupt end to the years, since it was always too late to end them.

 

It was the beginning of 1958 when Patsy realized she had lost her compulsion for stillness. Life did not remain unchanged after a Delia Busby kiss. Suddenly she had to deal with an unexpected fullness, with things no longer empty. Emptiness was uneventful, it asked nothing and it required nothing; now she had edges and textures, she had shapes and habits to learn, her hands touched with intent and got restless without the welsh woman. She didn’t want to occupy time anymore, she wanted to preserve it in a different type of immobility, one not laced with departure.  What was she supposed to do with the constant exhilaration, the pressing need to do better, be better?

 

She should had been careless, let her love pour through, indulge each desire—drag Delia to some dark alley, kiss the breath out of her lungs—instead her control tightened. Yearning in dark rooms and illicit thoughts were considered deviations, yet they were not punishable. Now, there was a tangibility between her and Delia, a dangerous, exquisite tangibility. Patsy tried to give solace to her apprehension, repeating over and over, _I know loving you is turning the days, the hours into perils, into flames_.

 

Even though Patsy longed for Delia the way she always did, albeit with an unprecedented fierceness, anguish was also rooted in her desire. She started feeling the eyes of the world upon her, scrutinizing every move—it would be years before she could fully detached herself from that voyeuristic interference in her life. The more she craved Delia the more she restrained it. She went as far as to avoid Delia’s stare in the ward and any gesture of public closeness.  After all, she excelled at self-control, she would not fail again at protecting those dear to her.

 

Delia expected the abrupt change, she had this uncanny ability to foreseen Patsy’s thoughts before she had the chance to form a cohesive reasoning. Nevertheless, she waited for clarity to arrive—it bothered Patsy this imbalance in their relationship, Delia was always the one who waited. She even wished Delia would make her wait to even things out; little did she knew, the one time she left her waiting, it nearly killed her, a pause much like death. At the time, Patsy wondered if the waiting was nothing but an endless goodbye.

 

A couple of weeks later, Patsy was resting her head in Delia’s chest, while the welsh woman traced the scars on her shoulders. Softly, Delia asked her about the newfound public distance, she was not puzzled by Patsy’s sharpness but for the accompanying intensity in close quarters, that dissonance between her public and private self.

 

Patsy fell silent for a moment and whispered, “I cannot bear to lose you, and if they get the slightest hint of suspicion they are going to rip us apart.”

 

This time, Delia fell silent, perceiving the space Patsy’s words occupied, extricating all that left unsaid. Her words were fast and minimal, much like her actions; Delia still marveled at the inconspicuous ways of Patience Mount and still hadn’t told her how her heart race each time she found fresh flowers in her room and sweets hidden on the nurses' desk.

 

After a few minutes, Delia sighed and replied, “You are a woman of extremes Pats, you never spare a thought for balance. I understand the need to be careful but if you don’t tone it down we are not going to need anyone else to tear us apart.”

 

Patsy nodded quietly. Right there in her arms, she understood everything better. She had known peacefulness in Delia’s arms; her mind had formed an automatic association between appease and her arms, every time she found herself troubled—a more frequent occurrence in her life—she ran to Delia, between her tight hold and the steady pace of her breathing she felt weightless, there she could truly rest.

 

Getting reacquainted with the world was disquieting; yes, she could talk more, laugh more, feel more than she ever did, however, other aspects of her life were unsettling her, mainly her job; it no longer provided her things she deemed relevant. Male surgical offered distance and predictability, a way to remain useful but detached. She was growing weary of it and the things she could barely tolerate—namely arrogant consultants, ghastly patients and hospital hierarchies—slowly turned into a weakening, hostile routine. 

 

Aside from the slow unraveling agony of her daily chores, Delia had to get back to Wales for a week or so. It seemed the agony wanted to expand its reigns all over her.

 

The afternoon before Delia’s departing, they sat watching the bustle of the docks, like rehearsing an early goodbye.

 

“It was never this hectic where I grew up”, the welsh woman asserted breaking the silence.

 

Patsy replied calmly, “I find it comforting, like a dance, life accommodating itself amidst chaos; I struggle to find that sort of fluidity, especially when it comes to loving you, it takes some adjusting to the flow. Overall, that’s how the city feels like, a turbulent stream of commotion and gathering, don't you think?”

 

Delia laughed, she was constantly left astonished by the other woman annoying habit of telling the biggest things in such nonchalant way. After a brief silence said, “I hate when you do that”

 

“When I do what?” Patsy replied smirking and looking straight ahead.

 

“Telling me these things like you were reading out loud matron's cleaning instructions. Is that, by any chance, your Patsy-way of telling me you love me?”

 

“Didn’t you already know that?” Patsy retorted, still refusing to meet the other woman's eyes.

 

“Yes, though confirmation is always good” Delia said through a smile. She continued, “coincidentally, an ‘I love you’ is always a question.  You do know I love you to distraction?”

 

This time Patsy looked at the other woman, with mock seriousness, “I had my suspicions.”

 

She turned her gaze to the docks once again, trying to control the pounding of her heart. Maybe if she looked far enough the impulse to kiss Delia would subside.

 

 When she felt steady enough, she stand up and tell Delia, “Let’s go. I’ll buy you supper.”

 


	4. To Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this for a while, there was something off about it, perhaps there still is. This is an old story, I wrote it about two years ago, maybe that's why I couldn't find its balance, but if I keep my obsession with it I'm gonna lose the little sanity I have left. So here it is. I have two or three more stories, but I don't know if they are worthy.
> 
> I'm repeating myself, but you awesome people who read and comment have my eternal gratitude.
> 
> I apologize for any mistake, I'll review it all as soon as I can.

 

 

A flower shop. It was now the moment to question her sanity and her resilience. Was she really that helpless? Delia had only been away a couple of days.

 

A bloody flower shop. Delia would not let her live that one down. She'd laugh and recall her growing reputation as killer of patients' flowers. Of course, after the teasing, Delia would probably tell her the flower shop was her twisted attempt to downplay her own uneasiness, use fancy terms like subterfuge and symbolic struggle. In turn, Patsy unable to deny it, would mock Delia about reading too much.

 

She knew that resorting to imagined conversations was a prolongation of the absence—what else could she do? She wouldn't revert to stillness, she was still amending her body of the self-imposed immobility, the perverse act of a body betrayed by itself. Instead, she was testing the absence, reluctantly adjusting to it. It wasn't the usual sting, the dry hollow from the private absences she carried within her; this absence, Delia's absence, settled in her flesh, left everything tenuous. In this perpetual state of disassociation, Patsy was clinging to objects—tables, chairs, stethoscopes, surfaces—trying to regain the solidity of the world. The arms that used to ground her, used to contain her were unreachable, probably out there, catching welsh daylight. She was then searching for equilibrium, a way to steady her life in a bearable regime, one in which herself and others came out unscathed.

 

Maybe she could pull through a subversive act at a time. Four easy steps to keep her sanity. The first one, to pretend, surround her daily chores with an artificial calmness, almost living off a polished tranquility and a forced cheerfulness. The second one, inflict little retaliations, stick the thickest needles she could find to awful patients. The third one, linger on her breaks just a bit, fantasizing about tearing up that ghastly uniform—perhaps she could convince Delia to rip it open. Meanwhile, she was condemned to feel her life drowning in purple. The fourth one, restrain the amount of cleaning. Who was she kidding? She ran out of things to clean before she even attempted it.

 

But still, there was the question of time. Because time demanded consumption, time needed to be filled and she chose to fill it with exhaustion, volunteering for double shifts, it was more suitable than float in the darkness of her room, along with the radio static.

 

Exhaustion-filled days mingled, tangled in each other, only separated by the changing contrast of light. She refused to count them, solely knowing what day it was by reading patients' notes, repeating _not yet, not yet, not yet_.

 

If she rejected counting the days, she too rejected counting the miles, she didn't want instrumental measures between her and Delia. The distance between them was only measured by her persistent headache. The deeper her head throbbed, the closest she was to meeting Delia at the seaside. When it got bad enough, when objects were blurred and cigarettes magnified the pain, Patsy knew it was almost time. She went to her room, tumbled to her bed and hoped to sleep the week, the ache, the longing away.

* * *

 

It occurred to her on the way to the train station, the cost of salvaging a few moments together; the realization unformed in her haste not to be late.

 

It was the erratic movement, the sense she was going somewhere, going to someone that brought it back to her mind. The cost beyond extreme cautiousness, beyond hiding and sneaking, the cost in lies. How much of their life now was spent deceiving? Patsy was not one for lying and neither was Delia, and yet they had formed instinctively a habit of telling half-truths. As the city moved under her feet, she understood the weight of it, the brief uneasiness she had seen in Delia every time they have to pretend on the outside, every time someone asked about male suitors. Most of the time Delia shrugged, other times, when she felt particularly frustrated, was a full-on rant about _the second sex_ directed at some scared-looking person.

 

Patsy let out an exasperated sigh, Delia was right _again_ , sometimes she could be so dense. It took her some time to give coherence to thoughts and events that others could so easily pieced together. Anyway, who could blame her? Delia's nearness made her forget a whole lot of things.

 

Nonetheless, there were so many possibilities held amidst the lies. Even when she despised their stranglehold, they gave her such respite. Lies allowed closeness, complicity and shared codes, allowed so many grazes in the dark, so many hushed promises and kisses like redemption.

 

She moved restlessly in her seat, her body incapable of holding the discomfort of the next thought: How much will be enough? When will Delia get fed-up of the half-truths, of this non-existence?

 

Grim thoughts suddenly interrupted when the train arrived to the station. She slowly get down and went looking for a less crowded place, her height a pleasant advantage. While her eyes searched, her mind returned to its previous musings, but not for long, because there she was.

 

One look at Delia to forget everything.

 

There she was, among the sterile daylight and the dissonant movement. Delia spotted her before any further appreciation, preventing her old habit of watching her, of wishing she could take everything in, every millimeter, every shadow.

 

Delia spotted her and smiled wide, approaching her with a mischievous expression. Once they were a little closer than usual, they said “hi” in unison. The need for possessive closeness only scarcely satisfied by a tug on her arm, when Delia intertwined their arms and dragged her out of the station.

 

The day was cold, but still pleasant. Patsy tried to shake the haziness of Delia's closeness enough to articulate words, “How was everything back home? Your family is in good health?”

 

“It was calm. Family noisy and demanding, mother overwhelming as always; You’d be surprised the number of ways there are for recriminating my lack of male prospects.”

 

Patsy tried not to grimace, “Your mother sounds intense.” She seized Delia’s pensive pause to guide them to an empty bench.

 

The welsh woman accent sounded thicker this time, “Intense is one word for it. Going back home is nice but only in small doses, after a few days I go stir-crazy. And you, how did things went?

 

“Same old, at work hardly anything changes. Oh, you know something did change, the Hospital very discreetly retired that appalling Doctor Tracey, he finally messed up enough and nearly killed a man.”

 

“Can't say I'm surprised, it was long overdue. At least didn’t happen under worse circumstances.”

 

Patsy’s voice grew weary, “It doesn't really change anything, does it? You cut one, two more grow back.”

 

Delia perceived the slight change in intonation and could foresee the other woman subsequent silence. So she just looked at her, not only to give her the quietness she needed but also because she had missed her so much, had missed her elegant movements, her sharp and comforting presence.

 

Patsy occupied time by lighting a cigarette, averting Delia's intense gaze and preparing for the conversation she knew was coming. She might as well get it started. “You've been giving me the Busby glare for quite some time now, even before you went away.”

 

“The Busby glare?” Delia asked amused.

 

“Yes, it varies in intensity and ranges between anger and concern. This one is concern. So ask away.”

 

Delia looked away, diverting her eyes to the by-passers, “Something has been disturbing you, that much is obvious”

 

“May I ask, how do you know, what's my tell?” An endless bewilderment as to how this woman could read her so well.

 

Delia smiled, “Besides the fact you're smoking three times your usual amount?”

 

Patsy look away, a little flustered, guiltily eying her cigarette.

 

“Moreover, I've seen how restless you are in the ward, like you're just itching to get out. I hadn't asked because I know you won't lie. You either deflect or answer reluctantly, and I don't want to force you in any way.”

 

Silence lingered a bit more. When Patsy spoke, her voice was raspy and quiet.

 

“I can't stand being there anymore. I feel more like a guard than a nurse, I’m no longer doing my job, only enduring it. I couldn't avoid the comparison with the nurse who came to replace you, she looked genuinely pleased, even inspired by her work.”

 

“What was her job about?”

 

“District practice. Midwifery.”

 

“A midwife” Delia pondered for a moment and gave her a weird look. “Yes, I could see you as a midwife. Have you given it any thought?”

 

Patsy looked horrified. “Me? A midwife? No, no, no. Don't you remembered what that patient said one time, that I have the tact of a handsaw? What If I drop a baby, What if I say something insensitive or...?”

 

Delia's laugh interrupted any further rambling. “Take it easy Pats. I'm sure you'd be a wonderful midwife, you're the sweetest, softest, most caring person that I know. If it's not for you, there are more options.”

 

Patsy smile at her sweetly before her countenance became serious again. “There's something else bothering me. If I go away, it means away from you too. When I'm near you I have this illusion that everything cost us nothing, I forget how difficult things really are, all we have to do to gain a few moments together. If we're apart, how are we going to manage?”

 

She seemed calmed, her voice composed, as if the uncertainty was not shattering. Delia knew it was not simply a question but a plea, she knew it because the eyes she had come to know so well were betraying Patsy's well-crafted calmness. A useful imitation, nonetheless exactly that, an imitation.

 

Delia sighed, looking intently at Patsy so she could not avoid her eyes anymore. ”You can't stay in a place so averse to you, not even for me. I'm sure we'll find a way somehow, we always have. Let's worry about it when we absolutely must.”

 

“As easy as that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Patsy let out a brief chuckle, “I could've used all of this last week, since I did something rather stupid, on impulse I might add. But I'll tell you later, it's too early to be teased.”

 

Delia turned to her filled with curiosity, albeit conceding the pause, knowing how much it drained the other woman this sort of conversations. “Don't believe because I'll wait, I'm gonna let it pass.” Their usual banter allowing the taller woman to unwind, her mask of propriety subsiding. “Pats, I know at this time of the year there's not much of a view, and the sea looks like a muddy gray-blue wash, but let's try to make the best of the day before it rains or gets too cold.”

 

Maybe it was the gray-blue sea. Maybe it was the fact she didn't mind the view, Delia held the only shade of blue she'd ever care about. Maybe it was because she felt weightless and forgetful. She stood up, and offered the other woman her hand. Delia suspiciously accepted it. Her bewilderment increased when Patsy didn't let go and pulled her closer as they made their way down the street.

 

* * *

 

The ride back to London was quiet, the air cooler. The dimming light, made more peaceful by the warm pressed to her; Delia had dozed off, her body collapsed against her, a simple and rare act of public closeness. There, all she thought she was, all she remembered, all she knew, laid forgotten. Well, not quite so, all she care to know was right there against her. For knowledge was different somehow, not a task, not a requirement, not a protection against disaster. It was something she treasured. Knowledge became all about Delia Busby, her life transversely permeated by what Patsy knew about her. What remained to be learn was just an extension of that knowledge and whatever the future may be, irremediably intertwine to the woman gently sleeping alongside her.

 

 


End file.
